


The Defacement of Government Property

by Nolesr1



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Boyfriends, Defacement of Government Property, Dorks, Gen, Humor, M/M, Marine Corp, Nashville!, RAF - Freeform, UKUS, USUK - Freeform, funny dorks, i love these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:01:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4884691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolesr1/pseuds/Nolesr1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is pretty much based on a tumblr post about a woman that got a call from the Marine Corps telling her that damaging Government property is a Federal crime and not to do it again.</p>
<p>What did she do? </p>
<p>She left a visible hickey on her husband's neck. </p>
<p>So, from there my first thoughts were, 'Yeah! USUK/UKUS!'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Defacement of Government Property

The incessant beeping of that bloody alarm clock will be the death of him, he knows it.

Arthur groans and rolls over, reaching for the blasted bit of technology resting comfortably on the bedside table that, of course, is closest to him. Forget the fact that the clock belongs to Alfred. No, he’d been the one to draw the short straw and sleep beside the evil contraption.

Arthur stretches out his arm and slams the top of the clock once. Twice. Three times before finally finding the button that switches it off. The outside world, as he can see through the cracks if the closed blinds in their room, is dark. Dark enough that any sane creature is still resting, save for that one bloody raccoon that seems to have picked their flat to terrorize. Not the flat with the possessed cat and cat food. No, of course it had to be _theirs_. Sometimes he feels as though the world hates him.

As he curls back into his former position (flat on his stomach, though why the position is so comfortable is beyond him), the familiar warm weight of his lover’s arm falls against the small of his back and Arthur allows one of his eyes to open a bit so that he can see his boyfriend’s tired face. Alfred F. Jones, one of the most childish twenty-four year olds that the man has ever met begins snoring softly and Arthur finds himself smiling fondly at the younger man’s peaceful expression. It won’t last long, he knows, as the man needs to get up to get ready for the weekend long training, but for the moment the silence is nigh impenetrable.

Until that stupid alarm clock begins blaring again.

“Fucking hell,” the blonde man growls as the other one begins groaning softly, retracting his arm from around his lover’s waist and stretching, a routine that Arthur’s familiar with but no less tires of watching. Arthur turns and once again slams his hand against the clock in an effort to silence it and finally his efforts are rewarded by the silence that follows. He turns and faces his boyfriend.

Alfred is pushing himself up off the bed, as though doing a push-up and the muscles in his tan arm flex and stiffen, taut and strained. Alfred remains like that for a mere second or so, looking every bit as refined and elegant as any Marine, before flopping forward on his stomach, arms thrown akimbo with one hanging off the side of the bed and the other one pinned against Arthur’s chest. For Arthur’s part, he has to bite the sudden urge to snicker at the childish display, though he hardly minds the comforting weight against his chest. His boyfriend’s a bloody heat source.

After another five minutes, though, during which Arthur is sure that Alfred’s fallen right back to sleep, Arthur sits up, the arm at his shoulder falling to his waist before slowly curling around the bare skin.

Ah, so the lad’s not as asleep as he seems. Arthur chuckles and leans back against the headboard and runs a hand through the lad’s soft hair, watching as a strand here and there curls around his fingers as he continues to stroke the fair head. Alfred makes a sound on par with a cat’s purr before curling even closer to Arthur, his head resting against Arthur’s thigh. Arthur hums and his hand travels through Alfred’s soft hair, down his neck, and stops to rest against the tanned skin between Alfred’s shoulder blades. Though he knows the symbol by heart, his fingers begin to trace the elegant design of the lad’s tattoo of an eagle, wings outstretched and flying. Though it’s too dark to see, Arthur knows the bright colors that make up the bird as well as the design that makes it appear like it was painted on. Beneath him, Alfred groans, the sound reverberating throughout his entire being. Arthur can feel the vibrations of the sound against his palm.

Arthur chuckles but returns his hand to the lad’s soft hair, tugging at it until Alfred pushes himself up onto his forearms to glare at him through unfocused, foggy blue eyes. Arthur’s smirk grows as he has little doubt that the boy can’t even see his expression in the darkness, especially without his glasses.

“Stop it,” he slurs before flopping forward once again, his face buried in the pillow. “Wanna sleep,” comes the muffled extension and Arthur shakes his head fondly but leans forward, his forehead against the side of the younger man’s head,

“Your training starts at 0700,” Arthur murmurs, leaning forward and brushing his lips against the cartilage of Alfred’s ear. “It takes you at least an hour to get ready and another hour to get to the base. And with your tendency to dawdle, you need to get up now, love.”

Alfred groans, the sounds once again muffled by the pillow, but doesn’t move, though Arthur now begins to once again trace the edges of the tattoo across his lover’s shoulders. Alfred shivers and Arthur fights back a small grin. Finally, Alfred groans and turns his head slightly in his pillow, now eyeing Arthur with one sleep-filled, too blue eye.

“You enjoy my pain too much,” Alfred grumbles, though Arthur can tell by the deepening of his voice that he’s slowly beginning to wake up more fully. “Why don’t you have to do this?”

“I’m on leave,” Arthur reminds him smugly, leaning back against the headboard but throwing a leg over Alfred’s waist. His lover grumbles something and Arthur presses his ice cold toes against Alfred’s sun-kissed skin. Alfred hisses and nearly falls off the bed. He pushes himself up, leaning against his forearms, and glares sleepily at Arthur through the fringes of his golden wheat hair, now mussed by Arthur’s fingers and sleep.

Realistically speaking, the pair’s entire relationship shouldn’t work. Their relationship should have crashed and burned within months of meeting one another. An RAF pilot and American Marine? The words themselves sounds like the opening to some torrid joke. Granted, their first meeting hadn’t exactly gone over well, what with Arthur calling Alfred an uncivilized, jar-head and Alfred calling him a stodgy old bird. From there, the two had only shared insults until the brazen Private had outright asked the older man to drink. From there, he suppose, the rest is history.

Or now, he thinks as he watches the muscles in Alfred’s back flex as the boy slowly shoves himself out of bed. He sits up, his back to Arthur (and what a pretty back it is, Arthur thinks smugly. The tell-tale red marks that hold an eerie resemblance to fingernails color both well-worked shoulders as well as a slew of bruises against the younger man’s neck and shoulder, the highest one being just below the lad’s right ear), the covers still wrapped loosely around his waist.

He sits there for a full moment, long enough for Arthur to think that maybe he’s fallen asleep (it would hardly be the first time) and uses that excuse to brush his bare, cold feet against the small of the lad’s back, successfully causing him to push himself out of the bed to escape the cold limbs. When Alfred turns to stare at Arthur in betrayal, Arthur just snorts and calls,

“You can’t even see me, love.”

“Yes I can!”

“… Then why are you glaring at bedside table?”

Alfred opens his mouth and then closes it, unable to find a suitable response. With one final glare at something over Arthur’s shoulder, the irate blonde turns and stumbles into the bathroom, successfully slamming his foot into one of the posts of the bed. The slew of swear words makes Arthur both proud and somewhat ashamed: he's almost positive that Alfred hadn’t the slightest idea what half of those words had meant before he’d met Arthur. However, the pretty view of his lover’s bare form is enough to assuage any guilt he might feel in favor of satisfaction: Pilots didn’t do anything half-arsed even when it came to suitable partners.

The quiet click of the bathroom door sounds throughout the room as the cracks around the door light up. Seconds later, the sounds of water against tile can be heard. Arthur toys with the idea of joining him but quickly brushes it aside. For one thing, he’s finally gotten warm. For another thing, a distraction is the very last thing Alfred needs at the moment.

Decided, Arthur leans back, realizing that he’s hardly going to get any sleep until Alfred leaves (or until the blasted weekend is over) and crosses his legs. He reaches for his phone that sits on the bedside table right next to Alfred’s—a large IPhone with, of all things, a Captain America phone case.

(“I thought he’d been in the army?”

“Neh. I won’t hold that against him.”)

And turns the device on, wincing as the bright light of the screen nearly blinds him. After his eyes adjust (and a fair bit of swearing) Arthur finally manages to look at the bright screen without cursing, looking for any messages. Though he was given orders and is currently on leave, that doesn’t mean that he still won’t be called up at a moment’s notice as need-be. In fact, one of the main reasons he had managed a six month leave period was because of his records and his seniority. He isn’t ancient, as Alfred had a charming way of saying, he is merely well-learned.

While he thumbs through his messages, he hears absently the sound of water being turned off and a moment later the bathroom door opens, washing the room in a dim light as well as releasing some of the steam from the shower. Alfred emerges, a towel wrapped around his waist (practically hanging off of his hips, the attractive bastard) and a running a towel through his wet hair. Arthur’s fingers itch to run a hand through the wet locks but he stops himself.

Also visible are the other two tattoos that the boy possesses: an elegant _fleur-de-lis_ on his hip, said to be in honor of his mother’s side of the family who proudly display their colorful Choctaw history as well as the history of freed slaves in their family. Alfred had once explained that he’d grown up surrounded primarily by his very expressive New Orleans relatives as compared to his father’s more conservative North Carolina side of the family.

Arthur can remember hearing that Alfred could speak French, dreading what he considered a major flaw in a nearly perfect person. When he had finally heard the slow, very southern drawl of the Cajun language, Arthur had realized that there was a very, very large difference to France French and New Orleans French. He’d also learnt that Alfred had little trouble in dropping everything for a quick get-away.

His right wrist, visible as he continues to towel dry his hair, is colored by a small blue star, something that almost looks like a flower. It is in honor of one of his friends that had died when they were still in school in a car accident.

“Davie’d taught me everything I know about football,” Alfred had told him once when Arthur had begun to trace the simple design. “I probably wouldn’t be where I am without him.”

“—Are you here for?” Alfred asks and Arthur realizes that he’s been talking.

Arthur clears his throat. “Beg pardon?”

Alfred snorts, the sound muffled by the towel, and then lowers it, seeming to realize that his hair is as dry as it will get by his own means. Arthur watches as bits of gold hair begin to curl inward, haloed by the glow of the bathroom light. He also realizes with a note of chagrin that Alfred’s hair is longer than what is strictly required of Marines and that far too soon they’ll have to get the adorable little curls trimmed. Quite possibly when he gets back late Sunday night.

Well… damn.

Alfred balls the towel used to dry his hair into a tight ball and prepares himself. Arthur, knowing what’s to come, sighs and shakes his head at his lover’s childish behavior, more than a little tempted to chuck a pillow at him to snap him out of it. However, the look of concentration on his face (as well as the cute way in which he sticks his tongue out between his lips when he tries to really focus) stills his plan. He sits back, resigned, and watches as Alfred dramatically attempts to throw the balled up towel into the clothes bin, missing horribly. The towel falls onto the ground nearly a meter away from its intended target.

Alfred looks excited. “Did I get it in?”

Wanting to make a lewd comment but knowing that it will most likely go over Alfred’s head, Arthur shakes his head and answers aloud,

“No. You missed. Spectacularly.”

Alfred snorts, “Come on. You’re exaggerating again, old man,” is the response as Alfred makes his way towards the bedside table closest to where Alfred usually sleeps and the current resting place of both Arthur’s WWII novel and Alfred’s spectacles which rest neatly atop the heavy tome. Alfred snatches the silvery framed spectacles up and places them on the bridge of his nose. Arthur watches as his pupils slowly shrink, growing accustomed to the familiar frames. Alfred blinks once. Twice. Three times and then turns to look where he’s thrown the towel. Arthur raises an eyebrow expectantly. He stares at the towel blankly before turning to look at Arthur.

“Best two outta three.”

“No,” Arthur responds flatly while crossing his arms in front of him and leaning them against his drawn knees. “You’ve had your go and failed miserably. This is non-negotiable.”

“Come on, old man,” the younger blonde gripes. “Seriously, I played basketball—“

“All through middle and high school,” Arthur finishes, his voice deadpan. “Quite honestly, Alfred, if that’s what you’ve got to show for spending seven or so years playing that dreadful sport than it’s hardly surprising that you’ve joined the Marines instead of the Air Force.”

Once upon a time, a quip like that would have caused some serious damage on the young man’s ego. Having grown up wanting to emulate one of his grandfathers who’d been a WWII Ace Pilot, Alfred had been devastated when he’d learnt that he needed perfect 20/20 vision to join the AAF. Being a very pig-headed lad when he wanted to be, Alfred had been determined to gain his wings one way or another. So he had joined the Marines and was slowly beginning to work his way up to become a Marine Corp Pilot. Though Arthur didn’t doubt Alfred’s abilities in the slightest, he honestly isn’t looking forward to the added ego that is sure to come.

Fucking hell, there flat isn’t nearly big enough for two pilots.

Despite the quip, Alfred snorts and raises an eyebrow as he slowly walks across the room towards their shared closet, looking for the appropriate uniform, “Spare me, Artie. You couldn’t last a day in Marine training.”

“Of course not,” Arthur sniffs disdainfully, still leaning his elbows against his knees. “I’d be dreadfully bored within minutes. All that nautical nonsense...”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Artie,” Alfred chuckles, seeming to find what he was looking for as he vanishes into the walk-in closet. Arthur is almost miffed that he doesn’t get to see Alfred change. After a few moments, Alfred resurfaces from the closest, dressed in the appropriate uniform—a very formal-type thing—and Arthur finds himself eyeing the uniform appreciatively. It’s a very large leap from the hoodies and baggy jeans that Alfred’s always wearing: a nice, black suit tied off at the waist by a white belt, long, dark blue trousers, and sharp, polished black boots. Across the chest of the uniform are striking gold buttons as well as badge or two stating Alfred’s rank and status. All in all, Alfred cuts a striking figure in the full regalia, which showcases his broad shoulders that eventually teeter into a narrow waist and his remarkably long legs.

Arthur studies him as Alfred begins playing with the sleeves, trying to straighten them out and swearing when they refuse to comply. Arthur chuckles, “Having troubles there, Sailor?”

“None whatsoever, sir,” the lad drawls in what Arthur’s quickly learning is one of his deepest southern accents that’s highlighted by something else, something he can’t quite place that seems to be a marker for how and where he was raised. Though he’s never been overly fond of the flat American accents he’s seen in movies, he can’t deny that he definitely finds something very appealing about Alfred’s accent. Arthur drops his arms and places them on either side of his person, leans forward, dislodging the blanket wrapped firmly around his waist and smirks up at Alfred,

“Is there something you wish to say to me, love?” Alfred, finally managing to successfully manage the cuff, smirks over at Arthur, his glasses crooked, his hair a mess, and his eyes wicked,

“Why, of course not, _darling_ ,” he all but drawls, turning the two syllable word into a five syllable word and altogether dropping the ‘g’ at the end of the word. Arthur sucks in a breath and Alfred laughs at the reaction, though drops his earlier effort in favor of searching for his bag which holds the actual training uniform that he’ll need along with boots that would realistically work in any training environment.

After seeing him struggle for nearly five minutes, Arthur sighs and returns to his earlier position of crossing his arms and leaning his elbows against his knees.

“Your rucksack is right next to mine,” he tells Alfred dryly after nearly five more minutes of the lad’s futile search. “Remember? I made sure to place it there last night so you could remember where it was.”

“And that would be…” Alfred drawls out slowly as he stops his search and turns his full attention to Arthur. Arthur raises an eyebrow and responds slowly, as though talking to a small child,

“Where do we put our boots when we enter the flat?” Arthur asks, exaggerating practically every word. Alfred rolls his eyes at the tone but nods and turns, leaving the bedroom to enter the living room where sits the front door, where also sits their boots, as well as Alfred’s bag. A minute goes by before Arthur finally hears a triumphant, ‘Ah-ha!’ and assumes that Alfred’s either found his bag or the quarter that he lost nearly a month ago.

When Alfred reenters the room, bag thrown easily over his shoulder and his white uniform hat planted on his head, he’s still grinning, though the grin fades and is replaced by a yawn. Arthur frowns, wondering if the boy will be well enough to drive when Alfred leans forward, brushing his lips against Arthur’s forehead and mumbling a quiet,

“God, I’m gonna miss you.”

The words, along with the tone of his voice, forces Arthur to grab the boy’s neck and pull him forward, kissing him firmly against his already bruised lips and whispering a fervent, ‘Be safe or I swear to God, Alfred…’

Instead of laughing, Alfred smiles somewhat shyly and nods, brushing another kiss across the Englishman’s cheek, near centimeters away from the corner of his lip. For some reason, the gentle press of lips against his cheeks causes Arthur to firmly wrap both arms around Alfred’s neck, pulling him into a tight hug. The two remain like that for a moment longer before Alfred pulls away with a reluctant,

“I need to get going if I’m gonna to be there on time.”

Arthur nods stiffly, “I assume that you’ve got everything you need?” He asks, his tone formal.

Alfred grins and nods, “Yes, sir.”

“You can think of nothing more that you might need to pack?”

“No, sir.”

“I—alright then,” Arthur finishes, casting Alfred one last warning look that told him to be careful or he’d murder him. “Drive safely and I will be seeing you Sunday.”

Alfred hesitates, eyeing Arthur curiously before nodding and turning away. Arthur watches as he marches to the door without a backward glance and leaves the room. Neither are truly capable of saying ‘good-bye’ so neither really give the other a chance to mutter the words. Arthur remains in the bed, his elbows against his knees and his forehead resting against his arms. Outside, he can hear the call of insects and maybe even that blasted raccoon going through their trash. Another sound joins the cacophony of noise: the sound of an engine rumbling, turning to life, and the headlights of a car light up the small room for a moment as the driver begins backing out of the driveway. Arthur listens until the sound of the engine fades away into nothing, not even a faint background music, before he falls sideways onto the bed, arms akimbo and wanting to preserve what’s left of Alfred’s body heat from earlier.

_Semper Fidelis_ fits the lad’s personality but Arthur can’t help but think that _Per Ardua ad Astra_ would fit the starry-eyed boy far better.

…

The center of American country music is the quite literally the last place on earth that the young RAF Squadron leader ever thought he’d wind up.

Granted, Arthur decides as he pulls a shirt over his head and begins searching for his trainers, if anyone had told him that he would wind up dating an American Marine he would have called them mad and a slew of far more insulting phrases.

Arthur laughs at the thought as he finally manages to wrestle his trainers on while quickly deciding that he is in need of a new pair, though still waiting for the thick sole to completely give before trading them in for another pair.

He leaves the bedroom, stalwartly ignoring the very there smell of Alfred that seems to permeate every surface of the room. He walks, practically marches into the living room and reaches for the IPod that rests on the book case that’s a very strange mix of both soldiers’ interests: Arthur’s with histories and plays (as well as every book in the _Harry Potter_ series, all hard covers of course) and Alfred’s Calvin and Hobbes comics and some very complicated-looking tomes on Quantum Physics as well as anything involving the stars and space (and Alfred’s copies of _Harry Potter_ , all paper covers).

Arthur shakes his head at the alphabetically ordered books and begins skimming through the IPod, wondering if Alfred’s added any new artists that he hasn’t told Arthur about and only sees a new Linkin Park song along with a few songs by the Zack Brown band.

Another surprising turn of events, Arthur thinks dryly as he reaches for the earbuds (bright blue, as per Alfred) and begins thumbing through the songs, searching for a good song to start out his three kilometer run. His attention lands on ‘King and Lionheart’ by Monsters and Men and presses play. The familiar opening begins and Arthur makes sure to grab the keys to the flat before leaving, making doubly sure that he’s locked it.

As he begins his run, his gaze is drawn to the barely glowing horizon, lit by the lightning bugs dancing in and out of focus amongst the dark expanse. The crisp fall air bites at his nose but cools his lungs, causing puffs of steam to escape whenever he takes a particularly deep breath. The world around him is silent and as the lilting voices of the singers drag on, Arthur can’t help but muse over where his decisions have led him so far.

Being number five of six children had, and still is, a nightmare: his older brothers and sister had been more than happy to pair off and go on adventures together while he and Peter had been left alone at home: Scotty and Rhys, being born within a year-and-a-half of each other and being eight and seven years older than Arthur respectively, paired off and spent most of Arthur’s childhood getting into some form of trouble or another; Drake and his twin Faye also spent most of Arthur’s childhood getting into some form of mischief or another; and that left Arthur and his youngest brother, Peter, who didn’t get on well. At all. Ever.

Being a bit of an odd one in school left him with few friends, save for the arrogant Frenchman or German or Spanish student here and there, and pushed Arthur into the phase that Alfred fondly refers to as the ‘hella Punk phase.’ The phase had lasted throughout Arthur’s secondary school years until, when he’d turned eighteen, he had up and decided to join the RAF. No warning, no former interest. Nothing.

His siblings and parents had all been astonished by his decision and to this day he’s pretty sure that his brothers and sister had placed bets on him quitting.

The joke’s on them, he decides smugly as he quickens his pace from a walk to a full out jog. At twenty-seven, Arthur is currently the youngest serving Squadron Leader in the RAF as well as having been one of the best students at the Academy.

Arthur pushes himself forward as the world around him remains silent, save for another runner here and there, some with dogs, some without. Each time they pass, they raise and hand or nod in greeting and Arthur returns the gesture, though with far more reluctance. He has yet to grow fully comfortable at the open friendliness to complete strangers that seems to be everywhere here. If he catches someone’s eye on the bus or on the street, he has to remind himself to return the wave or smile that he receives. Having grown up in the city of Winchester in Hampshire where one only greets those that they know, it was—and still is—a bit of a culture shock when Alfred would start and actually hold a conversation with a complete stranger standing in the queue in a restaurant or checking out in a shop when Arthur’s inclination had always been to mind his own business.

Of course, there are many things in Nashville that surprise him: one thing being how it managed to charm a cynical former punk. Honestly, he’d never even liked anything that had something to do with the American south. The food? Terrible. The accents? Just… no. The music? That, of course, had been a huge, resounding no. Having met Alfred, who sees things through a more childish scope, somewhat changed Arthur’s opinion in some matters. He still sees Southern food as a heart attack waiting to happen though he has a soft spot, now, for Jambalaya and an array of other ‘southern’ cuisines. His views on the accents are still somewhat the same, though Alfred’s is somehow the exception. As for the music…

He can’t really live in practically the capitol of music in America and not to learn to like—or respect, at the very least—the different genres of music. He’s grown to appreciate the slow drawl of Johnny Cash and the fire in Reba McEntire; he’s slowly fallen under the spell of some of the swing music, as well as music that originated from the heart of New Orleans; though he’ll never admit it to anyone, least of all Alfred, one of his favorite songs at the moment is ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’—Arthur will admit to there being some good songs that could be defined in the scope of music as ‘country.’

Then, of course, Alfred had to go and introduce Arthur to an English band that saw themselves as country and after hearing them, he’d reluctantly agreed that they were good, though he couldn’t help but add an irritated,

“Of course some of the best country singers would be English.”

Alfred had shrugged and stated that, “’S what ‘Murica does: takes in or absorbs things from other countries and changes it so that it’ll fit whatever area it’s in.”

“So, what you’re saying is that America has no ingenuity or creativity?”

“Nooo,” Alfred had retorted, whilst stretching and Arthur could remember forcing his attention to remain on the too blue irises instead of the lean muscle of the lad’s arm. “What ‘m saying is that America takes in people and the people bring their traditions and shit with them. From there, it’s only a matter of time before the traditions become a part of the American culture.”

“As I said, no creativity,” Arthur had repeated blithely, leaning back in his seat and reaching for his drink. At his side, Alfred had shrugged, “Whatever you say, man,” he’d drawled as he began drinking from his very American soda instead of some alcoholic beverage that he could get from a _pub_.

“All I’m sayin is: like us, we’re always in yall’s heart; hate us, we’re always in ya’ll’s mind.”

Arthur can still remember that strange weight that had settled on his chest that hadn’t truly left him until the two found themselves wrapped tightly around each other beneath the sheets of Alfred’s hotel bed later that night.

Arthur shakes those thoughts away, thoughts that make it harder for him to think about spending the night and two days alone. He continues forward at a steady jog, slowly developing a pattern here and there. After about thirty minutes—nearly seven or eight songs—Arthur can feel the familiar burn to his lungs kick in and he finds himself both resentful and grateful for the hilly climate that is Nashville: grateful because it gives running more of a challenge. Resentful, well, for about the very same reason. The only good thing is that he now has a spectacular view of the sunrise, something that he can only remember whilst being in a plane, high above the rest of the world.

The striking blues, oranges, reds, yellows, and pinks that color the sky nearly take his breath away and Arthur grins at the sight, deciding that there are certainly worst places to be. Like training.

_Poor Alfred_ , Arthur thinks with a grin, not even the slightest twinge of true sympathy in his thoughts.

…

When Arthur returns to the flat nearly two hours later, he’s greeted by an incessant ringing, loud enough that he can hear it from his spot outside the thick door.

Arthur groans and very slowly forces himself, his mind still somewhat struck by the deer and rabbits that he had seen earlier in his run. Another thing about Nashville that had struck his fancy was and still does is the wildlife that are so easily seen almost everywhere.

He finally forces himself through the door just as he ringing stops, much to Arthur’s relief. He removes the earbuds from his person and begins to wrap them around the IPod, succeeding after a moment and then replaces the piece of technology back on its spot on the bookshelf next to _The Goblet of Fire_. He hums the last song that he’s heard under his breath and makes his way to the bathroom for a long, warm shower.

He’s nearly undressed when he hears the shrill call of the phone and practically growls out his distaste at being called so early in the fucking morning, especially after Alfred’s just left. Still growling under his breath, Arthur stalks towards the kitchenette area and the phone, more than willing to give the caller a piece of his mind. Before he can get a clear insult through his mind, his eye catch the caller ID: Arthur instantly recognizes the number for the Reserve building where the training is being held.

Arthur slams his shoulder into the edges of one of the cabinets in his haste to get to the phone. Panic fills him: had there been an accident? Is Alfred alright? Is Alfred being called out? What—

“Hallo?” Arthur practically huffs, his breath having barely returned from his earlier run. “Yes, hello?”

“Is this the residence of Mr. Jones?” The calm voice on the other end asks and Arthur, the feeling of panic practically doubling at the too-calm tone of the caller’s voice.

“Yes, this is where Alfred lives,” Arthur snaps, running a hand through his sweat soaked hair and silently wondering how long it would take him to reach the Reserve center using the bus system. It isn’t that bad, after all….

“And would I, perhaps, be speaking to the spouse of Mr. Jones?” The calm female voice asks.

Arthur swallows at the question, having definitely considered the idea of marriage more than once but answers, “Yes,” Arthur answers just to get all formalities out of the way. “Yes, you’re speaking with his spouse.”

“Mr. Jones,” the woman continues and there’s now a note in her voice that Arthur can’t exactly place, but seems oh-so out of place given the context of the call. Maybe Arthur’s imagining it. God, Alfred better be okay. “You are aware that it is a Federal crime to deface government property, correct?”

“I—…” Arthur begins but trails off, entirely thrown and having no idea how to respond. Unless being English and breathing American air has somehow polluted the atmosphere or the government’s been privy to Arthur’s less-than-kind thoughts involving the American raccoon, then Arthur quite literally hasn’t the slightest idea what the woman’s talking about. “I’m… sorry. But, what—“

“There is a visible mark beneath the right ear of Mr. Alfred F. Jones,” the woman continues and Arthur can finally place the strange note from earlier. Amusement. “A visible bruise and I’m sorry to say sir, if we find any more such bruises then you can be fined for damaging government property.”

Arthur makes a strange choking sound and he realizes that the strange feeling that’s now bubbling through his chest is a choked laughter. Bloody hell. Bloody fucking hell. The woman obviously hears the noise and feels the need to add, “Don’t do it again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur manages through choked laughter. He can just imagine Alfred’s expression when he finds out about the call—bright red, blustering face, wide-eyed, and sheepish.

Oh, God Arthur’s going to love telling him.

“I hope you have nice a day,” the woman tells him blithely, as though she hadn’t just given Arthur fuel to the metaphoric fire.

“You as well,” Arthur manages to check out before hanging up the phone. He stares at the thing for a moment before nearly doubling over, laughing so hard that he can feel it in his bones. The call carries Arthur through the rest of the day, from his shower to his part-time job, to his evening run and then to that Sunday.

Arthur spends most of the day waiting patiently for Alfred to return, laughing in random bouts throughout the day as he remembers the conversation. Finally, at a little past twenty-one hundred hours, Arthur spots a set of headlights through the window of the living room and hears the familiar droning of an engine. He unwraps himself from the comforter that he’s curled around himself and places the book that he’s been reading in front of him on the coffee table.

Finally, the engine’s low growl is cut off and Arthur pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to the door, leaning against the wall directly across from it with his arms crossed and a small smirk across his face. A moment passes until he hears the sound of metal-on-metal and the ‘click’ of the lock as it unlocks, quickly followed by the squeal of the door hinges (they really needed to get those bloody things fixed, honestly) as the door is slowly pushed open. A second later Alfred appears in the doorway, looking tired, sweaty, and near exhausted. Arthur’s smirk drops, replaced by something softer, something lighter that he doesn’t quite have a name for.

Alfred finally looks up, his bag thrown over his shoulder, and eyes Arthur with a hint of surprise. “Huh,” he begins, stepping into the room and letting the door fall closed. “What’re you doing awake? Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I just wanted to let you know I got a call from the Reserves yesterday,” Arthur informs him, his soft expression dropping and his earlier smirk returning.

He pushes himself off of the wall and ambles forward. Alfred’s bemused expression is entirely worth it and he wraps his arms around the slightly taller blonde’s neck. Alfred drops his bag and wraps both of his arms around Arthur’s waist, looking no less mystified.

“Err… is this like when I was in tenth grade and my parents got a call saying that I’d blown up one of the science rooms?” Alfred asks. “’Cause, I swear, that was a complete accident and I haven’t blown anything up. At all.”

“Thank God,” Arthur responds, leaning forward and brushing his lips across the column before slowly dragging his teeth across the hollow of his neck. Arthur can feel the lad swallow and his Adam’s apple bobbing and he smirks against the bronzed skin. “I would hate to get another call about the defacement of government property.”

“I—wait. What?” Alfred asks, though Arthur can tell that’s it’s less to do with the content of the sentence and more to do with the sentence itself. Arthur draws his head back, noting the look of disappointment on the younger man’s face at the action and smirks up at him.

“It seems like your senior officers noticed this,” the pads of Arthur’s finger brush nimbly across the nearly healed bruise beneath Alfred’ right ear, causing the boy to shiver and his arms to tighten around Arthur’s waist. “And called to inform me that the defacement of government property is a federal crime and next time I’ll be fined for any visible marks.”

Alfred squawks indignantly, his cheeks puffed out and red, his hair a tangled mess of gold, and his glasses hanging off of his nose. His arms fall from Arthur’s waist, though one returns to his hip. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Alfred huffs, looking adorably disgruntled. “I am not government property!”

“Of course not,” Arthur agrees as one of his arms drops to the boy’s waist, his hand brushing past the somewhat wet garment before lying flat against the lean, heated skin—the other hand remains relaxed against Alfred’s shoulder. Arthur draws him closer and smirks unashamedly up at him. “You’re _mine,_ ” he declares, leaning forward and brushing his lips, tongue, teeth across the visible collar bones.

Alfred shivers and his grip tightens. Suddenly, though, Arthur’s pulled away. He frowns up at Alfred, annoyed and Alfred leans his forehead against Arthur’s, his striking blue gaze never wavering from Arthur’s. Both of Alfred’s hands come up to Arthur’s neck, curling around either side, his thumbs brushing against the hard line of Arthur’s jaw.

“Okay, then,” he breathes, his breath warm against Arthur’s face. Everything about the boy is warm. “But only if I can have a part of you, too.”

_Too late_ for that, Arthur thinks as he leans forward, capturing Alfred’s lips in his own and looping his finger around the waistband of Alfred’s trousers, dragging him back with him. Arthur’s back hits the wall and one of Alfred’s hands slide from the side of his face to cup the back of his head while Arthur’s hand brushes through the golden curls before tightening his grip, pulling Alfred down and deepening the kiss.

After that, Arthur never receives another call concerning the defacement of government property. Most likely because he’s found a slew of far more interesting places to mark.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me be the first to say that I love the idea of Alfred being from New Orleans. I don't know why but the idea of him being from New Orleans and being part Native American/part Free People of Color just seems to fit him. At least for me. Plus, the tattoos would also look great on him. 
> 
> Then there's the thing where you've got the two separate military branches and that sweet rivalry between them. I can honestly see Arthur in the RAF as much as I can see Alfred in the Marine Corp. Speaking of...
> 
> Semper Fi: Always faithful--motto for the United States Marine Corp.  
> Per Ardua ad Astra: Through adversity to the stars--motto for the RAF. 
> 
> The country/English band mentioned earlier is actually a real band. They're called The Shires and they're exceptional. You should have a listen when you get the chance. 
> 
> Anywho! So, this was a prompt and if you have any more or questions or concerns or anything of the like then feel free to message me or leave a comment. I hope everyone has a great day and soldiers through the coming Mondays


End file.
